Every Person Has Secrets
by EdwardAnthony
Summary: Bella is on a flight. Thinking that is was truly her last moment, she babbles all of her secrets to a dishy guy sitting besides her. She survives. The famous founding boss is coming for a look at the UK branch. He is the same person from the flight.....
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer- I own nothing.

**Summary- Bella has always been a very nervous flyer. Thinking that she was about to die, she babbles all of her secrets to a dishy American sitting besides her. She survives the flight, of course, and the next morning the famous founding boss of the whole mega corporation she works for is coming for a look at the UK branch. As he walks around, Bella looks up and realises... It's the man from the plane. What will he do with her secrets? He knows them all - but she doesn't know a single one of his. Or... does she? **

Of course I have secrets.

Of course I do. Everyone has a secret. It's completely normal. I'm sure I don't have any more than anybody else.

I'm not talking about big, earth-shattering secrets. Not the-president-is-planning-to-bomb-Japan-and-only-Will-Smith-can-save-the-world type secrets. Just normal, everyday little secrets.

Like for example, here are a few random secrets of mine, off the top of my head:

1. My Kate Spade bag is a fake.

2. I love sweet sherry, the least cool drink in the universe.

3. I have no idea what NATO stands for. Or even what it is.

4. I weigh 9 stone 3. Not 8 stone 3, like my boyfriend Jake thinks. (Although in my defence, I was planning to go on a diet when I told him that. And to be fair, it is only one number different.)

5. I've always thought Jake looks a bit like Ken. As in Barbie and Ken.

6. Sometimes, when we're right in the middle of passionate sex, I suddenly want to laugh.

7. I lost my virginity in the spare bedroom with Danny Nussbaum, while Mum and Dad were downstairs watching Ben Hur.

8. I've already drunk the wine that Dad told me to lay down for twenty years.

9. Sammy the goldfish at home isn't the same goldfish that Mum and Dad gave me to look after when they went to Egypt.

10. When my colleague Artemis really annoys me, I feed her plant orange juice. (Which is pretty much every day.)

11. I once had this weird lesbian dream about my flatmate Alice.

12. My G-string is hurting me.

13. I've always had this deep down conviction that I'm not like everybody else, and there's an amazingly exciting new life waiting for me just around the corner.

14. I have no idea what this guy in the grey suit is going on about.

15. Plus I've already forgotten his name.

And I only met him ten minutes ago.

'We believe in logistical formative alliances,' he's saying in a nasal, droning voice, 'both above and below the line.'

'Absolutely!' I reply brightly, as though to say: Doesn't everybody?

Logistical. What does that mean, again?

Oh God. What if they ask me?

Don't be stupid, Bella. They won't suddenly demand, 'What does logistical mean?' I'm a fellow marketing professional, aren't I? Obviously I know these things.

And anyway, if they mention it again I'll change the subject. Or I'll say I'm post-logistical or something.

The important thing is to keep confident and businesslike. I can do this. This is my big chance and I'm not going to screw it up.

I'm sitting in the offices of Glen Oil's headquarters in Glasgow, and as I glance at my reflection in the window, I look just like a top businesswoman. My hair is straightened, I'm wearing discreet earrings like they tell you to in How-to-win-that-job articles, and I've got on my smart new Jigsaw suit. (At least, it's practically new. I got it from the Cancer Research shop and sewed on a button to replace the missing one, and you can hardly tell.)

I'm here representing the Panther Corporation, which is where I work. The meeting Glen Oil, and I flew up this morning from London, especially. (The company paid, and everything!)

When I arrived, the Glen Oil marketing guys started on this long, show-offy 'who's-travelled-the-most?' conversation about airmiles and the red-eye to Washington – and I think I bluffed pretty convincingly. (Except when I said I'd flown Concorde to Ottawa, and it turns out Concorde doesn't go to Ottawa.) But the truth is, this is the first time I've ever had to travel for a deal.

OK. The real truth is, this is the first deal I've ever done, full stop. I've been at the Panther Corporation for eleven months as a marketing assistant, and until now all I've been allowed to do is type out copy, arrange meetings for other people, get the sandwiches and pick up my boss's dry-cleaning.

So this is kind of my big break. And I've got this secret little hope that if I do this well, maybe I'll get promoted. The ad for my job said 'possibility of promotion after a year', and on Monday I'm having my yearly appraisal meeting with my boss, Paul. I looked up 'Appraisals' in the staff induction book, and it said they are 'an ideal opportunity to discuss possibilities for career advancement'.

Career advancement! At the thought, I feel a familiar stab of longing in my chest. It would just show Dad I'm not a complete loser. And Mum. And Tanya. If I could go home and casually say, 'By the way, I've been promoted to Marketing Executive.'

Bella Swan, Marketing Executive.

Bella Swan, Senior Vice-President (Marketing.)

As long as everything goes well today. Paul said the deal was done and dusted and all I had to do was nod and shake their hands, and even I should be able to manage that. And so far, I reckon it's going really well.

OK, so I don't understand about 90 per cent of what they're saying. But then I didn't understand much of my GCSE French Oral either, and I still got a B.

'Rebranding … analysis … cost-effective …'

The man in the grey suit is still droning on about something or other. As casually as possible, I extend my hand and inch his business card towards me so I can read it.

Doug Hamilton. That's right. OK, I can remember this. Doug. Dug. Easy. I'll picture a shovel. Together with a ham. Which … which looks ill … and …

OK, forget this. I'll just write it down.

I write down 'rebranding' and 'Doug Hamilton' on my notepad and give an awkward little wriggle. God, my knickers really are uncomfortable. I mean, G-strings are never that comfortable at the best of times, in my opinion, but these are particularly bad. Which could be because they're two sizes too small.

Which could possibly be because Jake bought them for me, and told the lingerie assistant I weighed eight stone three. Whereupon she told him I must be size eight. Size eight!

(Frankly, I think she was just being mean. She must have known I was fibbing.)

So it's Christmas Eve, and we're exchanging presents, and I unwrap this pair of gorgeous pale pink silk knickers. Size eight. And I basically have two options.

A: Confess the truth: 'Actually these are too small, I'm more of a 12, and by the way, I don't really weigh eight stone three.' Or …

B: Shoe-horn myself into them.

Actually, it was fine. You could hardly see the red lines on my skin afterwards. And all it meant was that I had to quickly cut all the labels out of my clothes so Jake would never realize.

Since then, I've hardly ever worn this particular set of underwear, needless to say. But every so often I see them looking all nice and expensive in the drawer and think, Oh come on, they can't be that tight, and somehow squeeze into them. Which is what I did this morning. I even decided I must have lost weight, because they didn't feel too bad.

I am such a deluded moron.

'… unfortunately since rebranding … major rethink … feel we need to be considering alternative synergies …'

Up to now I've just been sitting and nodding, thinking this business meeting lark is really easy. But now Doug Hamilton's voice starts to impinge on my consciousness. What's he saying?

'… two products diverging … becoming incompatible …'

What was that about incompatible? What was that about a major rethink? I feel a jolt of alarm. Maybe this isn't just waffle. Maybe he's actually saying something. Quick, listen.

'We appreciate the functional and synergetic partnership that Panther and Glen Oil have enjoyed in the past,' Doug Hamilton is saying. 'But you'll agree that clearly we're going in different directions.'

Different directions?

Is that what he's been talking about all this time?

My stomach gives an anxious lurch.

He can't be—

Is he trying to pull out of the deal?

'Excuse me, Doug,' I say, in my most relaxed voice. 'Obviously I was closely following what you were saying earlier.' I give a friendly, we're-all-professionals-together smile. 'But if you could just … um, recap the situation for all our benefits …'

In plain English, I beg silently.

Doug Hamilton and the other guy exchange glances.

'We're a little unhappy about your brand values,' says Doug Hamilton.

'My brand values?' I echo in panic.

'The brand values of the product,' he says, giving me an odd look. 'As I've been explaining, we here at Glen Oil are going through a rebranding process at the moment, and we see our new image very much as a caring petrol, as our new daffodil logo demonstrates. And we feel Panther Prime, with its emphasis on sport and competition, is simply too aggressive.'

'Aggressive?' I stare at him, bewildered. 'But … it's a fruit drink.'

This makes no sense. Glen Oil is fume-making, world-ruining petrol. Panther Prime is an innocent cranberry-flavoured drink. How can it be too aggressive?

'The values it espouses.' He gestures to the marketing brochures on the table. 'Drive. Elitism. Masculinity. The very slogan, "Don't Pause". Frankly, it seems a little dated.' He shrugs. 'We just don't think a joint initiative will be possible.'

No. No. This can't be happening. He can't be pulling out.

Everyone at the office will think it was my fault. They'll think I cocked it up and I'm completely crap.

My heart is thumping. My face is hot. I can't let this happen. But what do I say? I haven't prepared anything. Paul said it was all set up and all I had to do was shake their hands.

'We'll certainly discuss it again before we make a decision,' Doug's saying. He gives me a brief smile. 'And as I say, we would like to continue links with the Panther Corporation, so this has been a useful meeting in any case.'

He's pushing back his chair.

I can't let this slip away! I have to try to win them round. I have to try and shut the deal.

Close the deal. That's what I meant.

'Wait!' I hear myself say. 'Just … wait a moment! I have a few points to make.'

What am I talking about? I have no points to make.

There's a can of Panther Prime sitting on the desk, and I grab it for inspiration. Playing for time, I stand up, walk to the centre of the room and raise the can high into the air where we can all see it.

'Panther Prime is … a sports drink.'

I stop, and there's a polite silence. My face is prickling.

'It … um … it is very …'

Oh God. What am I doing?

Come on, Bella. Think. Think Panther Prime … think Panther Cola … think … think …

Yes! Of course!

OK, start again.

'Since the launch of Panther Cola in the late 1980s, Panther drinks have been a byword for energy, excitement and excellence,' I say fluently.

Thank God. This is the standard marketing blurb for Panther Cola. I've typed it out so many zillions of times, I could recite it in my sleep.

'Panther drinks are a marketing phenomenon,' I continue. 'The Panther character is one of the most widely recognized in the world, while the classic slogan "Don't Pause" has made it into dictionaries. We are now offering Glen Oil an exclusive opportunity to join with this premium, world-famous brand.'

My confidence growing, I start to stride around the room, gesturing with the can.

'By buying a Panther health drink, the consumer is signalling that he will settle for nothing but the best.' I hit the can sharply with my other hand. 'He expects the best from his energy drink, he expects the best from his petrol, he expects the best from himself.'

I'm flying! I'm fantastic! If Paul could see me now, he'd give me a promotion on the spot!

I come over to the desk and look Doug Hamilton right in the eye. 'When the Panther consumer opens that can, he is making a choice which tells the world who he is. I'm asking Glen Oil to make the same choice.'

As I finish speaking I plant the can firmly in the middle of the desk, reach for the ring pull and, with a cool smile, snap it back.

It's like a volcano erupting.

Fizzy cranberry-flavoured drink explodes in a whoosh out of the can, landing on the desk, drenching the papers and blotters in lurid red liquid … and oh no, please no … spattering all over Doug Hamilton's shirt.

'Fuck!' I gasp. 'I mean, I'm really sorry …'

'Jesus Christ,' says Doug Hamilton irritably, standing up and getting a handkerchief out of his pocket. 'Does this stuff stain?'

'Er …' I grab the can helplessly. 'I don't know.'

'I'll get a cloth,' says the other guy, and leaps to his feet.

The door closes behind him and there's silence, apart from the sound of cranberry drink dripping slowly onto the floor.

I stare at Doug Hamilton, my face hot and blood throbbing through my ears.

'Please …' I say, and clear my husky throat. 'Don't tell my boss.'

After all that. I screwed it up.

As I drag my heels across the concourse at Glasgow Airport, I feel completely dejected. Doug Hamilton was quite sweet in the end. He said he was sure the stain would come out, and promised he wouldn't tell Paul what happened. But he didn't change his mind about the deal.

My first big meeting. My first big chance – and this is what happens. I feel like giving up on the whole thing. I feel like phoning the office and saying 'That's it, I'm never coming back again, and by the way, it was me who jammed the photocopier that time.'  
But I can't. This is my third career in four years. It has to work. For my own self-worth. For my own self-esteem. And also because I owe my dad four thousand quid.

'So what can I get you?' says an Australian guy, and I look up dazedly. I've arrived at the airport with an hour to go, and have headed straight for the bar.  
'

Erm …' My mind is blank. 'Er … white wine. No, actually, a vodka and tonic. Thanks.'

As he moves away, I slump down again in my stool. An air hostess with a French plait comes and sits down, two bar stools away. She smiles at me, and I smile weakly in return.  
I don't know how other people manage their careers, I really don't. Like my oldest friend Alice. She's always known she wanted to be a lawyer – and now, ta-daah! She's a fraud barrister. But I left college with absolutely no clue. My first job was in estate agency, and I only went into it because I've always quite liked looking round houses, plus I met this woman with amazing red lacquered nails at a career fair who told me she made so much money, she'd be able to retire when she was forty.

But the minute I started, I hated it. I hated all the other trainee estate agents. I hated saying things like 'a lovely aspect'. And I hated the way if someone said they could afford £300,000 we were supposed to give them details of houses costing at least £400,000, and then kind of look down our noses, like, 'You only have £300,000? God, you complete loser.'

So after six months I announced I was changing career and was going to be a photographer instead. It was such a fantastic moment, like in a film or something. My dad lent me the money for a photography course and camera, and I was going to launch this amazing new creative career, and it was going to be the start of my new life …  
Except it didn't quite happen like that.

I mean, for a start, do you have any idea how much a photographer's assistant gets paid?

Nothing. It's nothing.

Which, you know, I wouldn't have minded if anyone had actually offered me a photographer's assistant's job.

I heave a heavy sigh, and gaze at my doleful expression in the mirror behind the bar. As well as everything else, my hair, which I carefully straightened with serum this morning, has gone all frizzy. Typical.

At least I wasn't the only one who didn't get anywhere. Out of the eight people on my course, one became instantly successful and now takes photos for Vogue and stuff, one became a wedding photographer, one had an affair with the tutor, one went travelling, one had a baby, one works at Snappy Snaps and one is now at Morgan Stanley.

Meanwhile I got more and more into debt, and started temping and applying for jobs which actually paid money. And eventually, eleven months ago, I started as a marketing assistant at the Panther Corporation.

The barman places a vodka and tonic in front of me, and gives me a quizzical look. 'Cheer up!' he says. 'It can't be that bad!'

'Thanks,' I say gratefully, and take a sip. That feels a bit better. I'm just taking a second sip when my mobile starts to ring.

My stomach gives a nervous flip. If it's the office, I'll just pretend I didn't hear.

But it's not, it's our home number flashing on the little screen.

'Hi,' I say, pressing green.

'Hiya!' comes Alice's voice. 'Only me! So how did it go?'

Alice is my flatmate and my oldest friend in the world. She has tufty dark hair and an IQ of about 600 and is the sweetest person I know.

'It was a disaster,' I say miserably.

'What happened? Didn't you get the deal?'

'Not only did I not get the deal, I drenched the marketing director of Glen Oil in cranberry drink.'

Along the bar, I can see the air hostess hiding a smile, and I feel myself flush. Great. Now the whole world knows.

'Oh dear.' I can almost feel Alice trying to think of something positive to say. 'Well, at least you got their attention,' she says at last. 'At least they won't forget you in a hurry.'  
'

I suppose,' I say morosely. 'So, did I have any messages?'  
'

Oh! Erm … no. I mean, your dad did phone, but … um … you know … it wasn't …' She tails off evasively.

'Alice. What did he want?'

There's a pause.

'Apparently your cousin's won some industry award,' she says apologetically. 'They're going to be celebrating it on Saturday as well as your mum's birthday.'

'Oh. Great.'  
I slump deeper in my chair. That's all I need. My cousin Tanya triumphantly clutching some silver Best-travel-agent-in-the-world-no-make-that-universe trophy.

'And Jake rang, too, to see how you got on,' adds Alice quickly. 'He was really sweet, he said he didn't want to ring your mobile during your meeting in case it disturbed you.'

'Really?'  
For the first time today, I feel a lift in spirits.

Jake. My boyfriend. My lovely, thoughtful boyfriend.

'He's such a sweetheart!' Alice is saying. 'He said he's tied up in a big meeting all afternoon but he's cancelled his squash game especially, so do you want to go out to supper tonight?'

'Oh,' I say, with a flicker of pleasure. 'Oh well, that'll be nice. Thanks, Alice.'

I click off and take another sip of vodka, feeling much more cheerful.

My boyfriend.

It's just like Julie Andrews said. When the dog bites, when the bee stings … I simply remember I have a boyfriend – and suddenly things don't seem quite so completely shit.

Or however she put it.

And not just any boyfriend. A tall, handsome, clever boyfriend, whom Marketing Week called 'one of the brightest sparks in marketing research today.'

I sit nursing my vodka, allowing thoughts of Jake to roll round my brain and comfort me. The way his blond hair shines in the sunshine, and the way he's always smiling. And the way he upgraded all the software on my computer the other day without me even asking, and the way he … he …

My mind's gone blank. This is ridiculous. I mean, there's so much that is wonderful about Jake. From his … his long legs. Yes. And his broad shoulders. To the time he looked after me when I had the flu. I mean, how many boyfriends do that? Exactly.

I'm so lucky, I really am.

I put the phone away, run my fingers through my hair, and glance at the clock behind the bar. Forty minutes to go before the flight. Not long now. Nerves are starting to creep over me like little insects, and I take a deep gulp of vodka, draining my glass.  
It'll be fine, I tell myself for the zillionth time. It'll be absolutely fine.

I'm not frightened. I'm just … I'm just …

OK. I am frightened.

16. I'm scared of flying.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer- I own nothing.**

**A big thanks to the two people who reviewed- IloveJasperWhitlock and puertorrican-babe.**

I've never told anyone I'm scared of flying. It just sounds so lame. And I mean, it's not like I'm phobic or anything. It's not like I can't get on a plane. It's just … all things being equal, I would prefer to be on the ground.

I never used to be scared. But over the last few years, I've gradually got more and more nervous. I know it's completely irrational. I know thousands of people fly every day and it's practically safer than lying in bed. You have less chance of being in a plane crash than … than finding a man in London, or something.

But still. I just don't like it.

Maybe I'll have another quick vodka.

By the time my flight is called, I've drunk two more vodkas and am feeling a lot more positive. I mean, Alice is right. At least I made an impression, didn't I? At least they'll remember who I am. As I stride towards the gate, clutching my briefcase, I almost start to feel like a confident businesswoman again. A couple of people smile at me as they pass, and I smile broadly back, feeling a warm glow of friendliness. You see. The world's not so bad after all. It's all just a question of being positive. Anything can happen in life, can't it? You never know what's round the next corner.

I reach the entrance to the plane, and there at the door, taking boarding passes, is the air hostess with the French plait who was sitting at the bar earlier.

'Hi again,' I say smiling. 'This is a coincidence!'

The air hostess stares at me.

'Hi. Erm …'

'What?'

Why does she look embarrassed?

'Sorry. It's just … did you know that …' She gestures awkwardly to my front.

'What is it?' I say, pleasantly. I look down, and freeze, aghast.

Somehow my silky shirt has been unbuttoning itself while I've been walking along. Three buttons have come undone and it's gaping at the front.

My bra shows. My pink lacy bra. The one that went a bit blobby in the wash.

That's why those people were smiling at me. Not because the world is a nice place, but because I'm Pink-Blobby-Bra-Woman.

'Thanks,' I mutter, and do up the buttons with rumbling fingers, my face hot with humiliation.

'It hasn't been your day, has it?' says the air hostess sympathetically, holding out a hand for my boarding pass. 'Sorry, I couldn't help overhearing, earlier.'

'That's all right.' I raise a half-smile. 'No, it hasn't been the best day of my life.' There's a short silence as she studies my boarding pass.

'Tell you what,' she says in a low voice. 'Would you like an on-board upgrade?'

'A what?' I stare at her blankly.

'Come on. You deserve a break.'

'Really? But … can you just upgrade people like that?'

'If there are spare seats, we can. We use our discretion. And this flight is so short.' She gives me a conspiratorial smile. 'Just don't tell everyone, OK?'

She leads me into the front section of the plane and gestures to a big, wide, comfortable seat. I've never been upgraded before in my life! I can't quite believe she's really letting me do this.

'Is this first class?' I whisper, taking in the hushed, luxury atmosphere. A man in a smart suit is tapping at a laptop to my right, and two elderly women in the corner are plugging themselves into headsets.

'Business class. There's no first class on this flight.' She lifts her voice to a normal volume. 'Is everything OK for you?'

'It's perfect! Thanks very much.'

'No problem.' She smiles again and walks away, and I push my briefcase under the seat in front.

Wow. This really is lovely. Big wide seats, and footrests, and everything. This is going to be a completely pleasurable experience from start to finish, I tell myself firmly. I reach for my seatbelt and buckle it up nonchalantly, trying to ignore the flutters of apprehension in my stomach.

'Would you like some champagne?'

It's my friend the air hostess, beaming down at me.

'That would be great,' I say. 'Thanks!'

Champagne!

'And for you, sir? Some champagne?'

The man in the seat next to mine hasn't even looked up yet. He's wearing jeans and an old sweatshirt and is staring out of the window. As he turns to answer I catch a glimpse of emerald eyes, stubble; a deep frown etched on his forehead.

'No thanks. Just a brandy. Thanks.'

His voice is dry and has an American accent. I'm about to ask him politely where he's from, but he immediately turns back and stares out of the window again.

Which is fine, because to be honest, I'm not much in the mood for talking either.

OK. The truth is, I don't like this.

I know it's business class, I know it's all lovely luxury. But my stomach is still a tight knot of fear.

While we were taking off I counted very slowly with my eyes closed, and that kind of worked. But I ran out of steam at about 350. So now I'm just sitting, sipping champagne, reading an article on '30 Things To Do Before You're 30' in Cosmo. I'm trying very hard to look like a relaxed business-class top marketing executive. But oh God. Every tiny sound makes me start; every judder makes me catch my breath.

With an outward veneer of calm I reach for the laminated safety instructions and run my eyes over them. Safety exits. Brace position. If life jackets are required, please assist the elderly and children first. Oh God—

Why am I even looking at this? How will it help me to gaze at pictures of little stick people jumping into the ocean while their plane explodes behind them? I stuff the safety instructions quickly back in their pocket and take a gulp of champagne.

'Excuse me, madam.' An air hostess with red curls has appeared by my side. 'Are you travelling on business?'

'Yes,' I say, smoothing down my hair with a prickle of pride. 'Yes I am.'

She hands me a leaflet entitled 'Executive Facilities', on which there's a photo of businesspeople talking animatedly in front of a clipboard with a wavy graph on it.

'This is some information about our new business class lounge at Gatwick. We provide full conference call facilities, and meeting rooms, should you require them. Would you be interested?'

OK. I am a top businesswoman. I am a top highflying business executive.

'Quite possibly,' I say, looking nonchalantly at the leaflet. 'Yes, I may well use one of these rooms to … brief my team. I have a large team, and obviously they need a lot of briefing. On business matters.' I clear my throat. 'Mostly … logistical.'

'Would you like me to book you a room now?' says the hostess helpfully.

'Er, no thanks,' I say after a pause, 'My team is currently … at home. I gave them all the day off.'

'Right.' The hostess looks a little puzzled.

'But another time, maybe,' I say quickly. 'And while you're here – I was just wondering, 'is that sound normal?'

'What sound?' The air hostess cocks her head.

That sound. That kind of whining, coming from the wing?'

'I can't hear anything.' She looks at me sympathetically. 'Are you a nervous flyer?'

'No!' I say at once, and give a little laugh. 'No, I'm not nervous! I just … was wondering. Just out of interest.'

'I'll see if I can find out for you,' she says kindly. 'Here you are, sir. Some information about our executive facilities at Gatwick.'

The American man takes his leaflet wordlessly and puts it down without even looking at it, and the hostess moves on, staggering a little as the plane gives a bump.

Why is the plane bumping?

Oh God. A sudden rush of fear hits me with no warning. This is madness. Madness! Sitting in this big heavy box, with no way of escape, thousands and thousands of feet above the ground …

I can't do this on my own. I have an overpowering need to talk to someone. Someone reassuring. Someone safe.

Jake.

Instinctively I fish out my mobile phone, but immediately the air hostess swoops down on me.

'I'm afraid you can't use that on board the plane,' she says with a bright smile. 'Could you please ensure that it's switched off?'

'Oh. Er … sorry.'

Of course I can't use my mobile. They've only said it about fifty-five zillion times. I am such a durr-brain. Anyway, never mind. It doesn't matter. I'm fine. I put the phone away in my bag, and try to concentrate on an old episode of Fawlty Towers which is showing on the screen.

Maybe I'll start counting again. Three hundred and forty-nine. Three hundred and fifty. Three hundred and—

Fuck. My head jerks up. What was that bump? Did we just get hit?

OK, don't panic. It was just a bump. I'm sure everything's fine. We probably just flew into a pigeon or something. Where was I?

Three hundred and fifty-one. Three hundred and fifty-two. Three hundred and fifty—

And that's it.

That's the moment.

Everything seems to fragment.

I hear the screams like a wave over my head, almost before I realize what's happening.

Oh God. Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh … OH … NO. NO. NO.

We're falling. Oh God, we're falling.

We're plummeting downwards. The plane's dropping through the air like a stone. A man over there has just shot up through the air and banged his head on the ceiling. He's bleeding. I'm gasping, clutching onto my seat, trying not to do the same thing, but I can feel myself being wrenched upwards, it's like someone's tugging me, like gravity's suddenly switched the other way. There's no time to think. My mind can't … Bags are flying around, drinks are spilling, one of the cabin crew has fallen over, she's clutching at a seat …

Oh God. Oh God. OK, it's slowing down now. It's … it's better.

Fuck. I just … I just can't … I...

I look at the American man, and he's grasping his seat as tightly as I am.

I feel sick. I think I might be sick. Oh God.

OK. It's … it's kind of … back to normal.

'Ladies and gentlemen,' comes a voice over the intercom, and everyone's heads jerk up. 'This is your captain speaking.'

My heart's juddering in my chest. I can't listen. I can't think.

'We're currently hitting some clear-air turbulence, and things may be unsteady for a while. I have switched on the seatbelt signs and would ask that you all return to your seats as quickly as—'

There's another huge lurch, and his voice is drowned by screams and cries all round the plane.

It's like a bad dream. A bad rollercoaster dream.

The cabin crew are all strapping themselves into their seats. One of the hostesses is mopping blood on her face. A minute ago they were happily doling out honey-roast peanuts.

This is what happens to other people in other planes. People on safety videos. Not me.

'Please keep calm,' the captain is saying. 'As soon as we have more information …'

Keep calm? I can't breathe, let alone keep calm. What are we going to do? Are we all supposed to just sit here while the plane bucks like an out-of-control horse?

I can hear someone behind me reciting 'Hail Mary, full of grace …' and a fresh, choking panic sweeps through me. People are praying. This is real.

We're going to die.

We're going to die.

'I'm sorry?' The American man in the next seat looks at me, his face tense and white.

Did I just say that aloud?

'We're going to die.' I stare into his face. This could be the last person I ever see alive. I take in the lines etched around his dark eyes; his strong jaw, shaded with stubble.

The plane suddenly drops down again, and I give an involuntary shriek.

'I don't think we're going to die,' he says. But he's gripping his seat-arms, too. 'They said it was just turbulence—'

'Of course they did!' I can hear the hysteria in my voice. 'They wouldn't exactly say, "OK folks, that's it, you're all goners"!' The plane gives another terrifying swoop and I find myself clutching the man's hand in panic. 'We're not going to make it. I know we're not. This is it. I'm twenty-five years old, for God's sake. I'm not ready. I haven't achieved anything. I've never had children, I've never saved a life …' My eyes fall randomly on the '30 Things To Do Before You're 30' article. 'I haven't ever climbed a mountain, I haven't got a tattoo, I don't even know if I've got a G spot …'

'I'm sorry?' says the man, sounding taken aback, but I barely hear him.

'My career's a complete joke. I'm not a top businesswoman at all.' I gesture half-tearfully to my suit. 'I haven't got a team! I'm just a crappy assistant and I just had my first ever big meeting and it was a complete disaster. Half the time I haven't got a clue what people are talking about, I don't know what logistical means, I'm never going to get promoted, and I owe my dad four thousand quid, and I've never really been in love …'

I draw myself up short with a jolt. 'I'm sorry,' I say, and exhale sharply. 'You don't want to hear all this.'

'That's quite all right,' says the man.

God. I'm completely losing it.

And anyway, what I just said wasn't true. Because I am in love with Jake. It must be the altitude or something, confusing my mind.

Flustered, I push the hair off my face and try to get a hold of myself. OK, let's try counting again. Three hundred and fifty … six. Three hundred and—

Oh God. Oh God. No. Please. The plane's lurching again. We're plummeting.

'I've never done anything to make my parents proud of me.' The words come spilling out of my mouth before I can stop them. 'Never.'

'I'm sure that's not true,' says the man nicely.

'It's true. Maybe they used to be proud of me. But then my cousin Tanya came to live with us and all at once it was like my parents couldn't see me any more. All they could see was her. She was fourteen when she arrived, and I was ten, and I thought it was going to be great, you know. Like having an older sister. But it didn't work out like that …'

I can't stop talking. I just can't stop.

Every time the plane bumps or jolts, another torrent of words pours randomly out of my mouth, like water gushing over a waterfall.

It's either talk or scream.

'… she was a swimming champion, and an everything champion, and I was just … nothing in comparison …'

'… photography course and I honestly thought it was going to change my life …'

'… eight stone three. But I was planning to go on a diet …'

'I applied for every single job in the world. I was so desperate, I even applied to …'

'… awful girl called Artemis. This new desk arrived the other day, and she just took it, even though I've got this really grotty little desk …'

'… sometimes I water her stupid spider plant with orange juice, just to serve her right …'

'… sweet girl Katie, who works in Personnel. We have this secret code where she comes in and says, "Can I go through some numbers with you, Bella?" and it really means "Shall we nip out to Starbucks …"'

'… awful presents, and I have to pretend I like them …'

'… coffee at work is the most disgusting stuff you've ever drunk, absolute poison …'

'… put "Maths GCSE grade A" on my CV, when I really only got C. I know it was dishonest. I know I shouldn't have done it, but I so wanted to get the job …'

What's happened to me? Normally there's a kind of filter which stops me blurting out everything I'm thinking; which keeps me in check.

But the filter's stopped working. Everything's piling out in a big, random stream, and I can't stop it.

'Sometimes I think I believe in God, because how else did we all get here? But then I think, yes but what about war and stuff …'

'… wear G-strings because they don't give you VPL. But they're so uncomfortable …'

'… size eight, and I didn't know what to do, so I just said "Wow those are absolutely fantastic …"'

'… roasted peppers, my complete favourite food …'

'… joined a book group, but I just couldn't get through Great Expectations. So I just skimmed the back and pretended I'd read it …'

'… I gave him all his goldfish food, I honestly don't know what happened …'

'… just have to hear that Carpenters song "Close to You" and I start crying …'

'… really wish I had bigger boobs. I mean, not Page 3 size, not completely enormous and stupid, but you know, bigger. Just to know what it's like …'

'… perfect date would start off with champagne just appearing at the table, as if by magic …'

'… I just cracked, I secretly bought this huge tub of Häagen-Dazs and scoffed the lot, and I never told Alice …'

I'm unaware of anything around us. The world has narrowed to me and this stranger, and my mouth, spewing out all my innermost thoughts and secrets.

I barely know what I'm saying any more. All I know is, it feels good.

Is this what therapy is like?

'… name was Danny Nussbaum. Mum and Dad were downstairs watching Ben Hur, and I remember thinking, if this is what the world gets so excited about, then the world's mad …'

'… lie on my side, because that way your cleavage looks bigger …'

'… works in market research. I remember thinking the very first time I saw him, wow, he's good-looking, He's very tall and blond, because he's half-Swedish, and he has these amazing blue eyes. So he asked me out …'

'… always have a glass of sweet sherry before a date, just to calm my nerves …'

'He's wonderful. Jake's completely wonderful. I'm just so lucky. Everyone's always telling me how great he is. He's sweet, and he's good, and he's successful and everyone calls us the perfect couple …'

'… I'd never tell anyone this in a million years. But sometimes I think he's almost too good-looking. A bit like one of those dolls? Like Ken. Like a blond Ken.'

And now I'm on the subject of Jake, I'm saying things I've never said to anyone. Things I never even realized were in my head.

'… gave him this lovely leather watch for Christmas, but he wears this orange digital thing because it can tell him the temperature in Poland or something stupid …'

'… took me to all these jazz concerts and I pretended to enjoy them to be polite, so now he thinks I love jazz …'

'… every single Woody Allen film off by heart and says each line before it comes and it drives me crackers …'

'… just looks at me as though I'm speaking some foreign language …'

'… determined to find my G spot, so we spent the whole weekend doing it in different positions, and by the end I was just knackered, all I wanted was a pizza and Friends …'

'… he kept saying, what was it like, what was it like? So in the end I just made some stuff up, I said it was absolutely amazing, and it felt as though my whole body was opening up like a flower, and he said, what sort of flower, so I said a begonia …'

'… can't expect the initial passion to last. But how do you tell if the passion's faded in a good, long-term-commitment way or in a crap, we-don't-fancy-each-other-any-more way …'

'… knight in shining armour is not a realistic option. But there's a part of me that wants a huge, amazing romance. I want passion. I want to be swept off my feet. I want an earthquake, or a … I don't know, a huge whirlwind … something exciting. Sometimes I feel as if there's this whole new, thrilling life waiting for me out there, and if I can just—'

'Excuse me, miss?'

'What?' I look up dazedly. 'What is it?' The air hostess with the French plait is smiling down at me.

'We've landed.' I stare at her.

'We've landed?'

This doesn't make sense. How can we have landed? I look around – and sure enough, the plane's still. We're on the ground.

I feel like Dorothy. A second ago I was swirling around in Oz, clicking my heels together, and now I've woken up all flat and quiet and normal again.

'We aren't bumping any more,' I say stupidly.

'We stopped bumping quite a while ago,' says the American man.

'We're … we're not going to die.'

'We're not going to die,' he agrees.

I look at him as though for the first time – and it hits me. I've been blabbering non-stop for an hour to this complete stranger. God alone knows what I've been saying.

I think I want to get off this plane right now.

'I'm sorry,' I say awkwardly. 'You should have stopped me.'

'That would have been a little difficult.' There's a tiny smile at his lips. 'You were on a bit of a roll.'

'I'm so embarrassed!' I try to smile, but I can't even look this guy in the eye. I mean, I told him about my knickers. I told him about my G spot.

'Don't worry about it. We were all stressed out. That was some flight.' He picks up his knapsack and gets up from his seat – then looks back at me. 'Will you be OK getting back home?'

'Yes. I'll be fine. Thanks. Enjoy your visit!' I call after him, but I don't think he hears.

Slowly I gather my things together and make my way off the plane. I feel sweaty, my hair's all over the place, and my head is starting to throb.

The airport seems so bright and still and calm after the intense atmosphere of the plane. The ground seems so firm. I sit quietly on a plastic chair for a while, trying to get myself together, but as I stand up at last, I still feel dazed. I walk along in a slight blur, hardly able to believe I'm here. I'm alive. I honestly never thought I'd make it back on the ground.

'Bella!' I hear someone calling as I come out of Arrivals, but I don't look up. There are loads of Bellas in this world.

'Bella! Over here!'

I raise my head in disbelief. Is that …

No. It can't be, it can't—

It's Jake.

He looks heart-breakingly handsome. His skin has that Scandinavian tan, and his eyes are bluer than ever, and he's running towards me. This makes no sense. What's he doing here? As we reach each other he grabs me and pulls me tight to his chest.

'Thank God,' he says huskily. 'Thank God. Are you OK?'

'Jake, what— what are you doing here?'

'I phoned the airline to ask what time you'd be landing, and they told me the plane had hit terrible turbulence. I just had to come to the airport.' He gazes down at me. 'Bella, I watched your plane land. They sent an ambulance straight out to it. Then you didn't appear. I thought …' He swallows hard. 'I don't know exactly what I thought.'

'I'm fine. I was just … trying to get myself together. Oh God, Jake, it was terrifying.' My voice is suddenly all shaky, which is ridiculous, because I'm perfectly safe now. 'At one point I honestly thought I was going to die.'

'When you didn't come through the barrier …' Jake breaks off and stares at me silently for a few seconds. 'I think I realized for the first time quite how deeply I feel about you.'

'Really?' I falter.

My heart's thumping. I think I might fall over at any moment.

'Bella, I think we should …'

Get married? My heart jumps in fear. Oh my God. He's going to ask me to marry him, right here in the airport. What am I going to say? I'm not ready to get married. But if I say no he'll stalk off in a huff. Shit. OK. What I'll say is, Gosh, Jake, I need a little time to …

'… move in together,' he finishes.

I am such a deluded moron. Obviously he wasn't going to ask me to marry him.

'What do you think?' he strokes my hair gently.

'Erm …' I rub my dry face, playing for time, unable to think straight. Move in with Jake. It kind of makes sense. Is there a reason why not? I feel all confused. Something's tugging at my brain; trying to send me a message …

And into my head slide some of the things I said on the plane. Something about never having been properly in love. Something about Jake not really understanding me.

But then … that was just drivel, wasn't it? I mean, I thought I was about to die, for God's sake. I wasn't exactly at my most lucid.

'Jake, what about your big meeting?' I say, suddenly recalling.

'I cancelled it.'

'You cancelled it?' I stare at him. 'For me?'

I feel really wobbly now. My legs are barely holding me up. I don't know if it's the aftermath of the plane journey or love.

Oh God, just look at him. He's tall and he's handsome, and he cancelled a big meeting, and he came to rescue me.

It's love. It has to be love.

'I'd love to move in with you, Jake,' I whisper, and to my utter astonishment, burst into tears.

* * *

**Review, review, review! **


	3. Chapter 3

I wake up the next morning with sunlight dazzling my eyelids and a delicious smell of coffee in the air.

'Morning!' comes Jake's voice from far above.

'Morning,' I mumble, without opening my eyes.

'D'you want some coffee?'

'Yes please.'

I turn over and bury my throbbing head in the pillow, trying to sink into sleep again for a couple of minutes. Which normally I would find very easy. But today, something's niggling at me. Have I forgotten something?

As I half listen to Jake clattering around in the kitchen, and the tinny background sound of the telly, my mind gropes blearily around for clues. It's Saturday morning. I'm in Jake's bed. We went out for supper – oh God, that awful plane ride …he came to the airport, and he said …

We're moving in together!

I sit up, just as Jake comes in with two mugs and a cafetière. He's dressed in a white waffle robe and looks completely gorgeous. I feel a prickle of pride, and reach over to give him a kiss.

'Hi,' he says, laughing. 'Careful.' He hands me my coffee. 'How are you feeling?'

'All right.' I push my hair back off my face. 'A bit groggy.'

'I'm not surprised.' Jake raises his eyebrows. 'Quite a day yesterday.'

'Absolutely.' I nod, and take a sip of coffee. 'So. We're … going to live together!'

'If you're still on for it?'

'Of course! Of course I am!' I smile brightly.

And it's true. I am.

I feel as though overnight, I've turned into a grownup. I'm moving in with my boyfriend. Finally my life is going the way it should!

'I'll have to give Andrew notice …' Jake gestures towards the wall, on the other side of which is his flatmate's room.

'And I'll have to tell Alice and Jessica.'

'And we'll have to find the right place. And you'll have to promise to keep it tidy.' He gives me a teasing grin.

'I like that!' I feign outrage. 'You're the one with fifty million CDs.'

'That's different!'

'How is it different, may I ask?' I plant my hand on my hip, like someone in a sitcom, and Jake laughs.

There's a pause, as though we've both run out of steam, and we take a sip of coffee.

'So anyway,' says Jake after a while, 'I should get going.' Jake is attending a course on computers this weekend. 'I'm sorry I'll miss your parents,' he adds.

And he really is. I mean, as if he wasn't already the perfect boyfriend, he actually enjoys visiting my parents.

'Oh, and I forgot to tell you.' Jake gives me a mysterious grin. 'Guess what I've got tickets for?'

'Ooh!' I say excitedly. 'Um …'

I'm about to say 'Paris!'

'The jazz festival!' Jake beams. 'The Dennisson Quartet! It's their last concert of the year. Remember we heard them at Ronnie Scott's?'

For a moment I can't quite speak.

'Wow!' I manage at last. 'The … Dennisson Quartet! I do remember.'

They played clarinets. On and on and on, for about two hours, without even taking a breath.

'I knew you'd be pleased.' Jake touches my arm affectionately, and I give him a feeble smile.

'Oh, I am!'

The thing is, I probably will get to like jazz one day. In fact, I'm positive I will.

I watch fondly as he gets dressed, flosses his teeth and picks up his briefcase.

You wore my present,' he says with a pleased smile, glancing at my discarded underwear on the floor.

'I … often wear them,' I say, crossing my fingers behind my back. 'They're so gorgeous!'

'Have a lovely day with your family.' Jake comes over to the bed to kiss me, and then hesitates. 'Bella?'

'Yes?'

He sits down on the bed and gazes seriously at me. Gosh, his eyes are so blue.

'There's something I wanted to say.' He bites his lip. 'You know we always speak frankly to each other about our relationship.'

'Er … yes,' I say, feeling a little apprehensive.

'This is just an idea. You may not like it. I mean … it's completely up to you.'

I gaze at Jake in puzzlement. His face is growing pink, and he looks really embarrassed.

Oh my God. Is he going to start getting kinky? Does he want me to dress up in outfits and stuff?

I wouldn't mind being a nurse, actually. Or Catwoman from Batman. That would be cool. I could get some shiny boots …

'I was thinking that … perhaps … we could …' He stops awkwardly.

'Yes?' I put a supportive hand on his arm.

'We could …' He stops again.

'Yes?'

There's another silence. I almost can't breathe. What does he want us to do? What?

'We could start calling each other "darling",' he says in an embarrassed rush.

'What?' I say blankly.

'It's just that …' Jake flushes pinker. 'We're going to be living together. It's quite a commitment. And I noticed recently, we never seem to use any … terms of endearment.'

I stare at him, feeling caught out.

'Don't we?'

'No.'

'Oh.' I take a sip of coffee. Now I think about it, he's right. We don't. Why don't we?

'So what do you think? Only if you want to.'

'Absolutely!' I say quickly. 'I mean, you're right. Of course we should.' I clear my throat. 'Darling!'

'Thanks, darling,' he says, with a loving smile, and I smile back, trying to ignore the tiny protests inside my head.

This doesn't feel right.

I don't feel like a darling.

Darling is a married person with pearls and a four-wheel-drive.

'Bella?' Jake's staring at me. 'Is something wrong?'

'I'm not sure!' I give a self-conscious laugh. 'I just don't know if I feel like a "darling". But … you know. It may grow on me.'

'Really? Well, we can use something else. What about "dear"?'

Dear? Is he serious?

'No,' I say quickly. 'I think "darling" is better.'

'Or "sweetheart" … "honey" … "angel"

'Maybe. Look, can we just leave it?'

Jake's face falls, and I feel bad. Come on. I can call my boyfriend 'darling', for God's sake. This is what growing up's all about. I'm just going to have to get used to it.

'Jake, I'm sorry,' I say. 'I don't know what's wrong with me. Maybe I'm still a bit tense after that flight.' I take his hand. 'Darling.'

'That's all right, darling.' He smiles back at me, his sunny expression restored, and gives me a kiss. 'See you later.'

You see. Easy.

Oh God.

Anyway. It doesn't matter. I expect all couples have this kind of awkward-ish moment. It's probably perfectly normal.

It takes me about half an hour to get from Jake's place in Maida Vale to Islington, which is where I live, and as I open the door I find Alice on the sofa. She's surrounded by papers and has a frown of concentration on her face. She works so hard, Alice. She really overdoes it sometimes.

'What are you working on?' I say sympathetically. 'Is it that fraud case?'

'No, it's this article,' says Alice abstractly, and lifts up a glossy magazine. 'It says since the days of Cleopatra, the proportions of beauty have been the same, and there's a way to work out how beautiful you are, scientifically. You do all these measurements …'

'Oh right!' I say interestedly. 'So what are you?'

'I'm just working it out.' She frowns at the page again. 'That makes 53 … subtract 20 … makes … Oh my God!' She stares at the page in dismay. 'I only got 33!'

'Out of what?'

'A hundred! 33 out of a hundred!'

'Oh Alice. That's crap.'

'I know,' says Alice seriously. 'I'm ugly. I knew it. You know, all my life I've kind of secretly known, but—'

'No!' I say, trying not to laugh. 'I meant the magazine's crap! You can't measure beauty with some stupid index. Just look at you!' I gesture at Alice, who has the biggest grey eyes in the world, and gorgeous clear pale skin and is frankly stunning, even if her last haircut was a bit severe. 'I mean, who are you going to believe? The mirror or a stupid mindless magazine article?'

'A stupid mindless magazine article,' says Alice, as though it's perfectly obvious.

I know she's half joking. But ever since her boyfriend Simon chucked her, Alice's had really low self-esteem. I'm actually a bit worried about her.

'Is that the golden proportion of beauty?' says our other flatmate Jessica, tapping into the room in her kitten heels. She's wearing pale pink jeans and a tight white top and as usual, she looks perfectly tanned and groomed. In theory, Jessica has a job, working in a sculpture gallery. But all she ever seems to do is have bits of her waxed and plucked and massaged, and go on dates with city bankers, whose salary she always checks out before she says yes.

I do get on with Jessica. Kind of. It's just that she tends to begin all her sentences 'If you want a rock on your finger,' and 'If you want an SW3 address,' and 'If you want to be known as a seriously good dinner-party hostess.'

I mean, I wouldn't mind being known as a seriously good dinner-party hostess. You know. It's just not exactly highest on my list of priorities right now.

Plus, Jessica's idea of being a seriously good dinner-party hostess is inviting lots of rich friends over, decorating the whole flat with twiggy things, getting caterers to cook loads of yummy food and telling everyone she made it herself, then sending her flatmates (me and Alice) out to the cinema for the night and looking affronted when they dare creep back in at midnight and make themselves a hot chocolate.

'I did that quiz,' she says now, picking up her pink Louis Vuitton bag. Her dad bought it for her as a present when she broke up with a guy after three dates. Like she was heartbroken.

Mind you, he had a yacht, so she probably was heart-broken.

'What did you get?' says Alice.

'Eighty-nine.' She spritzes herself with perfume, tosses her long blond hair back and smiles at herself in the mirror. 'So Bella, is it true you're moving in with Jake?' I gape at her.

'How did you know that?'

'Word on the street. Andrew called Rupes this morning about cricket, and he told him.'

'Are you moving in with Jake?' says Alice incredulously. 'Why didn't you tell me?'

'I was about to, honestly. Isn't it great?'

'Bad move, Bella.' Jessica shakes her head. 'Very bad tactics.'

'Tactics?' says Alice, rolling her eyes. 'Tactics? Jessica, they're having a relationship, not playing chess!'

'A relationship is a game of chess,' retorts Jessica, brushing mascara onto her lashes. 'Mummy says you always have to look ahead. You have to plan strategically. If you make the wrong move, you've had it.'

'That's rubbish!' says Alice defiantly. 'A relationship is about like minds. It's about soulmates finding each other.'

'Soulmates!' says Jessica dismissively, and looks at me. 'Just remember, Bella, if you want a rock on your finger, don't move in with Jake.'

Her eyes give a swift, Pavlovian glance to the photograph on the mantelpiece of her meeting Prince William at a charity polo match.

'Still holding out for Royalty?' says Alice. 'How much younger is he than you, again, Jessica?'

'Don't be stupid!' she snaps, colour tinging her cheeks. 'You're so immature sometimes, Alice.'

Anyway, I don't want a rock on my finger,' I retort.

Jessica raises her perfectly arched eyebrows as though to say, 'you poor, ignorant fool', and picks up her bag.

'Oh,' she suddenly adds, her eyes narrowing. 'Has either of you borrowed my Joseph jumper?'

There's a tiny beat of silence.

'No,' I say innocently.

'I don't even know which one it is,' says Alice, with a shrug.

I can't look at Alice. I'm sure I saw her wearing it the other night.

Jessica's blue eyes are running over me and Alice like some kind of radar scanners.

'Because I have very slender arms,' she says warningly, 'and I really don't want the sleeves stretched. And don't think I won't notice, because I will. Ciao.'

The minute she's gone Alice and I look at each other.

'Shit,' says Alice. 'I think I left it at work. Oh well, I'll pick it up on Monday.' She shrugs and goes back to reading the magazine.

OK. So the truth is, we do both occasionally borrow Jessica's clothes. Without asking. But in our defence, she has so many, she hardly ever notices. Plus according to Alice, it's a basic human right that flatmates should be able to borrow each others' clothes. She says it's practically part of the unwritten British constitution.

'And anyway,' adds Alice, 'she owes it to me for writing her that letter to the council about all her parking tickets. You know, she never even said thank you.' She looks up from an article on Nicole Kidman. 'So what are you doing later on? D'you want to see a film?'

'I can't,' I say reluctantly. 'I've got my mum's birthday lunch.'

'Oh yes, of course.' She pulls a sympathetic face. 'Good luck. I hope it's OK.'

Alice is the only person in the world who has any idea how I feel about visiting home. And even she doesn't know it all.


	4. Chapter 4

But as I sit on the train down, I'm resolved that this time will be better. I was watching a Cindy Blaine show the other day, all about reuniting long-lost daughters with their mothers, and it was so moving I soon had tears running down my face. At the end, Cindy gave this little homily about how it's far too easy to take our families for granted and that they gave us life and we should cherish them. And suddenly I felt really chastened.

So these are my resolutions for today:

I will not:

Let my family stress me out.

Feel jealous of Tanya, or let Nev wind me up.

Look at my watch, wondering how soon I can leave.

I will:

Stay serene and loving and remember that we are all sacred links in the eternal circle of life.

(I got that from Cindy Blaine, too.)

Mum and Dad used to live in Twickenham, which is where I grew up. But now they've moved out of London to a village in Hampshire. I arrive at their house just after twelve, to find Mum in the kitchen with my cousin Tanya. She and her husband Nev have moved out too, to a village about five minutes' drive from Mum and Dad, so they see each other all the time.

I feel a familiar pang as I see them, standing side by side by the stove. They look more like mother and daughter than aunt and niece. They've both got the same feather-cut hair – although Tanya's is highlighted more strongly than Mum's – they're both wearing brightly coloured tops which show a lot of tanned cleavage, and they're both laughing. On the counter, I notice a bottle of white wine already half gone.

'Happy birthday!' I say, hugging Mum. As I glimpse a wrapped parcel on the kitchen table, I feel a little thrill of anticipation. I have got Mum the best birthday present. I can't wait to give it to her!

'Hiya!' says Tanya, turning round in her apron. Her blue eyes are heavily made-up, and round her neck she's wearing a diamond cross which I haven't seen before. Every time I see Tanya she has a new piece of jewellery. 'Great to see you, Bella! We don't see enough of you. Do we, Aunty Renee?'

'We certainly don't,' says Mum, giving me a hug.

'Shall I take your coat?' says Tanya, as I put the bottle of champagne I've brought into the fridge. 'And what about a drink?'

This is how Tanya always talks to me. As though I'm a visitor.

But never mind. I'm not going to stress about it. Sacred links in the eternal circle of life.

'It's OK,' I say, trying to sound pleasant. 'I'll get it.' I open the cupboard where glasses are always kept, to find myself looking at tins of tomatoes.

'They're over here,' says Tanya, on the other side of the kitchen. 'We moved everything around! It makes much more sense now.'

'Oh right. Thanks.' I take the glass she gives me and take a sip of wine. 'Can I do anything to help?'

'I don't think so …' says Tanya, looking critically around the kitchen. 'Everything's pretty much done. So I said to Elaine,' she adds to Mum, '"Where did you get those shoes?" And she said M&S! I couldn't believe it!'

'Who's Elaine?' I say, trying to join in.

'At the golf club,' says Tanya.

Mum never used to play golf. But when she moved to Hampshire, she and Tanya took it up together. And now all I hear about is golf matches, golf club dinners, and endless parties with chums from the golf club.

I did once go along, to see what it was all about. But first of all they have all these stupid rules about what you can wear, which I didn't know, and some old guy nearly had a heart attack because I was in jeans. So they had to find me a skirt, and a spare pair of those clumpy shoes with spikes. And then when we got on to the course I couldn't hit the ball. Not I couldn't hit the ball well: I literally could not make contact with the ball. So in the end they all exchanged glances and said I'd better wait in the clubhouse.

'Sorry, Bella, can I just get past you …' Tanya reaches over my shoulder for a serving dish.

'Sorry,' I say, and move aside. 'So, is there really nothing I can do, Mum?'

'You could feed Sammy,' she says, giving me a pot of goldfish food. She frowns anxiously. 'You know, I'm a bit worried about Sammy.'

'Oh,' I say, feeling a spasm of alarm. 'Er … why?'

'He just doesn't seem himself.' She peers at him in his bowl. 'What do you think? Does he look right to you?'

I follow her gaze and pull a thoughtful face, as though I'm studying Sammy's features.

Oh God. I never thought she would notice. I tried as hard as I could to get a fish that looked just like Sammy. I mean he's orange, he's got two fins, he swims around … What's the difference?

'He's probably just a bit depressed,' I say at last. 'He'll get over it.'

Please don't let her take him to the vet or anything, I silently pray. I didn't even check if I got the right sex. Do goldfishes even have sexes?

'Anything else I can do?' I say, sprinkling fish food lavishly over the water in an attempt to block her view of him.

'We've pretty much got it covered,' says Tanya kindly.

'Why don't you go and say hello to Dad?' says Mum, sieving some peas. 'Lunch won't be for another ten minutes or so.'

I find Dad and Nev in the sitting room, in front of the cricket. Dad's greying beard is as neatly trimmed as ever, and he's drinking beer from a silver tankard. The room has recently been redecorated, but on the wall there's still a display of all Tanya's swimming cups. Mum polishes them regularly, every week.

Plus my couple of riding rosettes. I think she kind of flicks those with a duster.

'Hi, Dad,' I say, giving him a kiss.

'Bella!' He puts a hand to his head in mock-surprise. 'You made it! No detours! No visits to historic cities!'

'Not today!' I give a little laugh. 'Safe and sound.'

There was this time, just after Mum and Dad had moved to this house, when I took the wrong train on the way down and ended up in Salisbury, and Dad always teases me about it.

'Hi, Nev.' I peck him on the cheek, trying not to choke on the amount of aftershave he's wearing. He's in chinos and a white roll-neck, and has a heavy gold bracelet round his wrist, plus a wedding ring with a diamond set in it. Nev runs his family's company, which supplies office equipment all round the country, and he met Tanya at some convention for young entrepreneurs. Apparently they struck up conversation admiring each other's Rolex watches.

'Hi, Bella,' he says. 'D'you see the new motor?'

'What?' I peer at him blankly – then recall a glossy new car on the drive when I arrived. 'Oh yes! Very smart.'

'Mercedes 5 Series.' He takes a slug of beer. 'Forty-two grand list price.'

'Gosh.'

'Didn't pay that, though.' He taps the side of his nose. 'Have a guess.'

'Erm … forty?'

'Guess again.'

'Thirty-nine?'

'Thirty-seven-two-fifty,' says Nev triumphantly. 'And free CD changer. Tax deductible,' he adds.

'Right. Wow.'

I don't really know what else to say, so I perch on the side of the sofa and eat a peanut.

'That's what you're aiming for, Bella!' says Dad. 'Think you'll ever make it?'

'I … don't know. Er … Dad, that reminds me. I've got a cheque for you.' Awkwardly I reach in my bag and get out a cheque for £300.

'Well done,' says Dad. 'That can go on the tally.' His green eyes twinkle as he puts it in his pocket. 'It's called learning the value of money. It's called learning to stand on your own two feet!'

'Valuable lesson,' says Nev, nodding. He takes a slug of beer and grins at Dad. 'Just remind me, Bella – what career is it this week?'

When I first met Nev it was just after I'd left the estate agency to become a photographer. Two and a half years ago. And he makes this same joke every time I see him. Every single bloody—

OK, calm down. Happy thoughts. Cherish your family. Cherish Nev.

'It's still marketing!' I say brightly. 'Has been for over a year now.'

'Ah. Marketing. Good, good!'

There's silence for a few minutes, apart from the cricket commentary. Suddenly Dad and Nev simultaneously groan as something or other happens on the cricket pitch. A moment later they groan again.

'Right,' I say. 'Well, I'll just …'

As I get up from the sofa, they don't even turn their heads.

I go out to the hall and pick up the cardboard box which I brought down with me. Then I go through the side gate, knock on the annexe door and push it cautiously.

'Grandpa?'

Grandpa is Mum's dad, and he's lived with us ever since he had his heart operation, ten years ago. At the old house in Twickenham he just had a bedroom, but this house is bigger, so he has his own annexe of two rooms, and a tiny little kitchen, tacked onto the side of the house. He's sitting in his favourite leather armchair, with the radio playing classical music, and on the floor in front of him are about six cardboard packing cases full of stuff.

'Hi, Grandpa,' I say.

'Bella!' He looks up, and his face lights up. 'Darling girl. Come here!' I bend over to give him a kiss, and he squeezes my hand tight. His skin is dry and cool, and his hair is even whiter than it was last time I saw him.

'I've got some more Panther Bars for you,' I say, nodding to my box. Grandpa is completely addicted to Panther energy bars, and so are all his friends at the bowling club, so I use my allowance to buy him a boxful for every time I come home.

'Thank you, my love,' Grandpa beams. 'You're a good girl, Bella.'

'Where should I put them?'

We both look helplessly around the cluttered room.

'What about over there, behind the television?' says Grandpa at last. I pick my way across the room, dump the box on the floor, then retrace my steps, trying not to tread on anything.

'Now, Bella, I read a very worrying newspaper article the other day,' says Grandpa as I sit down on one of the packing cases. 'About safety in London.' He gives me a beady look. 'You don't travel on public transport in the evenings, do you?'

'Erm … hardly ever,' I say, crossing my fingers behind my back. 'Just now and then, when I absolutely have to …'

'Darling girl, you mustn't!' says Grandpa, looking agitated. 'Teenagers in hoods with flick-knives roam the underground, it said. Drunken louts, breaking bottles, gouging one another's eyes out …'

'It's not that bad—'

'Bella, it's not worth the risk! For the sake of a taxi fare or two.'

I'm pretty sure that if I asked Grandpa what he thought the average taxi fare was in London, he'd say five shillings.

'Honestly, Grandpa, I'm really careful,' I say reassuringly. 'And I do take taxis.'

Sometimes. About once a year.

'Anyway. What's all this stuff?' I ask, to change the subject, and Grandpa gives a gusty sigh.

'Your mother cleared out the attic last week. I'm just sorting out what to throw away and what to keep.'

'That seems like a good idea.' I look at the pile of rubbish on the floor. 'Is this stuff you're throwing away?'

'No! I'm keeping all that.' He puts a protective hand over it.

'So where's the pile of stuff to throw out?'

There's silence. Grandpa avoids my gaze.

'Grandpa! You have to throw some of this away!' I exclaim, trying not to laugh. 'You don't need all these old newspaper cuttings. And what's this?' I reach past the newspaper cuttings and fish out an old yo-yo. 'This is rubbish, surely.'

'Jim's yo-yo.' Grandpa reaches for the yo-yo, his eyes softening. 'Good old Jim.'

'Who was Jim?' I say, puzzled. I've never even heard of a Jim before. 'Was he a good friend of yours?'

We met at the fairground. Spent the afternoon together. I was nine.' Grandpa is turning the yo-yo over and over in his fingers.

'Did you become friends?'

'Never saw him again.' He shakes his head mistily. 'I've never forgotten it.'

The trouble with Grandpa is, he never forgets anything.

'Well, what about some of these cards?' I pull out a bundle of old Christmas cards.

'I never throw away cards.' Grandpa gives me a long look. 'When you get to my age; when the people you've known and loved all your life start to pass away … you want to hang onto any memento. However small.'

'I can understand that,' I say, feeling touched. I reach for the nearest card, open it and my expression changes. 'Grandpa! This is from Smith's Electrical Maintenance, 1965.'

'Frank Smith was a very good man—' starts Grandpa.

'No!' I put the card firmly on the floor. 'That's going. And nor do you need one from …' I open the next card. 'Southwestern Gas Supplies. And you don't need twenty old copies of Punch.' I deposit them on the pile. 'And what are these?' I reach into the box again and pull out an envelope of photos. 'Are these actually of anything you really want to—'

Something shoots through my heart and I stop, midstream.

I'm looking at a photograph of me and Dad and Mum, sitting on a bench in a park. Mum's wearing a flowery dress, and Dad's wearing a stupid sunhat, and I'm on his knee, aged about nine, eating an ice-cream. We all look so happy together.

Wordlessly, I turn to another photo. I've got Dad's hat on and we're all laughing helplessly at something. Just us three.

Just us. Before Tanya came into our lives.

I still remember the day she arrived. A red suitcase in the hall, and a new voice in the kitchen, and an unfamiliar smell of perfume in the air. I walked in and there she was, a stranger, drinking a cup of tea. She was wearing school uniform, but she still looked like a grown-up to me. She already had an enormous bust, and gold studs in her ears, and streaks in her hair. And at suppertime, Mum and Dad let her have a glass of wine. Mum kept telling me I had to be very kind to her, because her mother had died. We all had to be very kind to Tanya. That was why she got my room.

I leaf through the rest of the pictures, trying to swallow the lump in my throat. I remember this place now. The park we used to go to, with swings and slides. But it was too boring for Tanya, and I desperately wanted to be like her, so I said it was boring too, and we never went again.

'Knock knock!' I look up with a start, and Tanya's standing at the door, holding her glass of wine. 'Lunch is ready!'

'Thanks,' I say. 'We're just coming.'

'Now, Gramps!' Tanya wags her finger reprovingly at Grandpa, and gestures at the packing cases.

'Haven't you got anywhere with this lot yet?'

'It's difficult,' I hear myself saying defensively. 'There are a lot of memories in here. You can't just throw them out.'

'If you say so.' Tanya rolls her eyes. 'If it were me, the whole lot'd go in the bin.'

I cannot cherish her. I cannot do it. I want to throw my treacle tart at her.

We've been sitting round the table now for forty minutes and the only voice we've heard is Tanya's.

'It's all about image,' she's saying now. 'It's all about the right clothes, the right look, the right walk. When I walk along the street, the message I give the world is "I am a successful woman".'

'Show us!' says Mum admiringly.

'Well.' Tanya gives a false-modest smile. 'Like this.' She pushes her chair back and wipes her mouth with her napkin.

'You should watch this, Bella,' says Mum. 'Pick up a few tips!'

As we all watch, Tanya starts striding round the room. Her chin is raised, her boobs are sticking out, her eyes are fixed on the middle distance, and her bottom is jerking from side to side.

She looks like a cross between an ostrich and one of the androids in Attack of the Clones.

'I should be in heels, of course,' she says, without stopping.

'When Tanya goes into a conference hall, I tell you, heads turn,' says Nev proudly, and takes a sip of wine. 'People stop what they're doing and stare at her!'

I bet they do.

Oh God. I want to giggle. I mustn't. I mustn't.

'Do you want to have a go, Bella?' says Tanya. 'Copy me?'

'Er … I don't think so,' I say. 'I think I probably … picked up the basics.'

Suddenly I give a tiny snort and turn it into a cough.

'Tanya's trying to help you, Bella!' says Mum.

'You should be grateful! You are good to Bella, Tanya.'

She beams fondly at Tanya, who simpers back. And I take a swig of wine.

Yeah, right. Tanya really wants to help me.

That's why when I was completely desperate for a job and asked her for work experience at her company, she said no. I wrote her this long, careful letter, saying I realized it put her in an awkward situation, but I'd really appreciate any chance, even a couple of days running errands.

And she sent back a standard rejection letter.

I was so totally mortified, I never told anyone. Especially not Mum and Dad.

'You should listen to some of Tanya's business tips, Bella,' Dad is saying sharply. 'Maybe if you paid more attention you'd do a bit better in life.'

'It's only a walk,' quips Nev with a chortle. 'It's not a miracle cure!'

'Nev!' says Mum half reprovingly.

'Bella knows I'm joking, don't you, Bella?' says Nev easily and fills up his glass with more wine.

'Of course!' I say, forcing myself to smile gaily.

Just wait till I get promoted.

Just wait. Just wait.

'Bella! Earth to Bella!' Tanya is waving a comical hand in front of my face. 'Wake up, Dopey! We're doing presents.'

'Oh right,' I say, coming to. 'OK. I'll just go and get mine.'

As Mum opens a camera from Dad and a purse from Grandpa, I start to feel excited. I so hope Mum likes my present.

'It doesn't look much,' I say as I hand her the pink envelope. 'But you'll see when you open it …'

'What can it be?' Mum says, looking intrigued. She rips open the envelope, opens the flowered card, and stares at it. 'Oh, Bella!'

'What is it?' says Dad.

'It's a day at a spa!' says Mum in delight. 'A whole day of pampering.'

'What a good idea,' says Grandpa, and pats my hand. 'You always have good ideas for presents, Bella.'

'Thank you, love. How thoughtful!' Mum leans over to kiss me, and I feel a warm glow inside. I had the idea a few months ago. It's a really nice day-long package, with free treatments and everything.

'You get champagne lunch,' I say eagerly. 'And you can keep the slippers!'

'Wonderful!' says Mum. 'I'll look forward to it. Bella, that's a lovely present!'

'Oh dear,' says Tanya, giving a little laugh. She looks at the large creamy envelope in her own hands. 'My present's slightly upstaged, I'm afraid. Never mind. I'll change it.'

I look up, alert. There's something about Tanya's voice. I know something's up. I just know it.

'What do you mean?' says Mum.

'It doesn't matter,' says Tanya. 'I'll just … find something else. Not to worry.' She starts to put the envelope away in her bag.

'Tanya, love!' says Mum. 'Stop that! Don't be silly. What is it?'

'Well,' says Tanya. 'It's just that Bella and I seem to have had the same idea.' She hands Mum the envelope with another little laugh. 'Can you believe it?'

My whole body stiffens in apprehension.

No.

No. She can't have done what I think she's done.

There's complete silence as Mum opens the envelope.

'Oh my goodness!' she says, taking out a gold embossed brochure. 'What's this? Le Spa Meridien?' Something falls out, into her hands, and she stares at it. 'Tickets to Paris? Tanya!'

She has. She's ruined my present.

'For both of you,' adds Tanya, a little smugly. 'Uncle Charlie, too.'

'Tanya!' says Dad in delight. 'You marvel!'

'It is supposed to be rather good,' says Tanya with a complacent smile. 'Five-star accommodation …the chef has three Michelin stars …'

'I don't believe this,' says Mum. She's leafing excitedly through the brochure. 'Look at the swimming pool! Look at the gardens!'

My flowery card is lying, forgotten, amid the wrapping paper.

All at once I feel close to tears. She knew. She knew.

'Tanya, you knew,' I suddenly blurt out, unable to stop myself. 'I told you I was giving Mum a spa treat. I told you! We had that conversation about it, months ago. In the garden!'

'Did we?' says Tanya casually. 'I don't remember.'

'You do! Of course you remember.'

'Bella!' says Mum sharply. 'It was a simple mistake. Wasn't it, Tanya?'

'Of course it was!' says Tanya, opening her eyes in wide innocence. 'Bella, if I've spoiled things for you, I can only apologize—'

'There's no need to apologize, Tanya love,' says Mum. 'These things happen. And they're both lovely presents. Both of them.' She looks at my card again. 'Now, you two girls are best friends! I don't like to see you quarrelling. Especially on my birthday.'

Mum smiles at me, and I try to smile back. But inside, I feel about ten years old again. Tanya always manages to wrong-foot me. She always has done, ever since she arrived. Whatever she did, everyone took her side. She was the one whose mother had died. We all had to be nice to her. I could never, ever win.

Trying to pull myself together, I reach for my wine glass and take a huge swig. Then I find myself surreptitiously glancing at my watch. I can leave at four if I make an excuse about trains running late. That's only another hour and a half to get through. And maybe we'll watch telly or something …

'A penny for your thoughts, Bella,' says Grandpa, patting my hand with a little smile, and I look up guiltily.

'Er … nothing,' I say, and force a smile. 'I wasn't really thinking about anything.'


	5. Chapter 5

_**Disclaimer- I own NOTHING.**_

_**I want to get one thing clear with all of you. This writing is NOT mine. This story is just Sophie Kinsella's "Can You Keep A Secret" with Twilight characters. So credit goes to her and Stephanie Meyer for the characters. But I suggest that if you want to stick with this story, then don't read the book. It will ruin all the fun. But anyways, its a really good book and worth your time.**_

_**That said, on with the next chapter.**_

Anyway. It doesn't matter, because I'm going to get a promotion. Then Nev will stop making cracks about my career, and I'll be able to pay back Dad. Everyone will be really impressed – and it'll be fantastic!

I wake up on Monday morning feeling totally bouncy and positive, and get dressed in my usual work outfit of jeans and a nice top, this one from French Connection.

Well, not exactly French Connection. To be honest, I bought it at Oxfam. But the label says French Connection. And while I'm still paying off Dad I don't have much choice about where I shop. I mean, a new top from French Connection costs about fifty quid, whereas this one cost £7.50. And it's practically new!

As I skip up the tube steps, the sun's shining and I'm full of optimism. Imagine if I do get promoted. Imagine telling everybody. Mum will say, 'How was your week?' and I'll say, 'Well, actually …'

No, what I'll do is wait until I go home, and then just nonchalantly hand over my new business card.

Or maybe I'll just drive up in my company car I think in excitement! I mean, I'm not sure any of the other marketing executives have cars – but you never know, do you? They might introduce it as a new thing. Or they might say, 'Bella, we've chosen you specially—'

'Bella!'

I look round to see Katie, my friend from Personnel, climbing the tube steps behind me, panting slightly. Her curly red hair is all tousled, and she's holding one shoe in her hand.

'What on earth happened?' I say as she reaches the top.

'My stupid shoe,' says Katie disconsolately. 'I only had it mended the other day, and the heel's just come off.' She flaps it at me. 'I paid six quid for that heel! God, this day is such a disaster. The milkman forgot to bring me any milk, and I had a terrible weekend …'

'I thought you were spending it with Charlie,' I say in surprise. 'What happened?'

Charlie is Katie's latest man. They've been seeing each other for a few weeks and she was supposed to be visiting his country cottage, which he's doing up at the weekends.

'It was awful! As soon as we arrived, he said he was going off to play golf.'

'Oh right.' I try to find a positive angle. 'Well, at least he's comfortable with you. He can just act normally.'

'Maybe.' She looks at me doubtfully. 'So 'then he said, how did I feel about helping out a bit while he was gone? So I said of course – and then he gave me this paintbrush, and three pots of paint and said I should get the sitting room done if I worked fast.'

'What?'

'And then he came back at six o'clock – and said my brushwork was careless!' Her voice rises woefully. 'It wasn't careless! I only smudged one bit, and that's because the stupid ladder wasn't long enough.'

I stare at her.

'Katie, you're not telling me you actually painted the room.'

'Well … yes.' She looks at me with huge blue eyes. 'You know, to help out. But now I'm starting to think … is he just using me?'

I'm almost speechless with disbelief.

'Katie, of course he's using you,' I manage at last. 'He wants a free painter-decorator! You have to chuck him. Immediately. Now!'

Katie is silent for a few seconds, and I eye her a bit nervously. Her face is blank, but I can tell lots of things are going on beneath the surface. It's a bit like when Jaws disappears underneath the rippling water, and you just know that any minute—

'Oh God, you're right!' she suddenly bursts out. 'You're right. He's been using me! It's my own fault. I should have realized when he asked me if I had any experience in plumbing or roofing.'

'When did he ask you that?' I say incredulously.

'On our first date! I thought he was just, you know, making conversation.'

'Katie, it's not your fault.' I squeeze her arm. 'You weren't to know.'

'But what is it about me?' Katie stops still in the street. 'Why do I only attract complete shits?'

'You don't!'

'I do! Look at the men I've been out with.' She starts counting off on her fingers. 'Daniel borrowed all that money off me and disappeared to Mexico. Gary chucked me as soon as I found him a job. David was two-timing me. Do you see a pattern emerging?'

'I … um …' I say helplessly. 'Possibly …'

'I just think I should give up.' Her face falls. 'I'm never going to find anyone nice.'

'No,' I say at once. 'Don't give up! Katie, I just know your life is going to turn around. You're going to find some lovely, kind, wonderful man—'

'But where?' she says hopelessly.

'I … don't know.' I cross my fingers behind my back. 'But I know it'll happen. I've got a really strong feeling about it.'

'Really?' She stares at me. 'You do?'

'Absolutely!' I think quickly for a moment. 'Look, here's an idea. Why don't you try … going to have lunch at a different place today. Somewhere completely different. And maybe you'll meet someone there.'

'You think?' She gazes at me. 'OK. I'll try it.'

She gives a gusty sigh, and we start walking along the pavement again. 'The only good thing about the weekend,' she adds as we reach the corner, 'is I finished making my new top. What do you think?'

She proudly takes off her Edwardet and does a twirl, and I stare at her for a few seconds, not quite sure what to say.

It's not that I don't like crochet …

OK. It is that I don't like crochet.

Especially pink scoop-neck open-weave crochet tops. You can actually see glimpses of her bra through it.

'It's … amazing,' I manage at last. 'Absolutely fantastic!'

'Isn't it great?' She gives me a pleased smile. 'And it was so quick to do! I'm going to make the matching skirt next.'

'That's great,' I say faintly. 'You're so clever.'

'Oh, it's nothing! I just enjoy it.'

She smiles modestly, and puts her Edwardet back on. 'So anyway, how about you?' she adds as we start to cross the road. 'Did you have a nice weekend? I bet you did. I bet Jake was completely wonderful and romantic. I bet he took you out for dinner or something.'

'Actually, he asked me to move in with him,' I say awkwardly.

'Really?' Katie gazes wistfully at me. 'God, Bella, you two make the perfect couple. You give me faith that it can happen. It all seems so easy for you.'

I can't help feeling a little flicker of pleasure inside. Me and Jake. The perfect couple. Role models for other people.

'It's not that easy,' I say with a modest little laugh. 'I mean, we argue, like anyone else.'

'Do you?' Katie looks surprised. 'I've never seen you argue.'

'Of course we do!'

I rack my brain for a moment, trying to remember the last time Jake and I had a fight. I mean, obviously we do have arguments. Loads of them. All couples do. It's only healthy.

Come on, this is silly. We must have—

Yes. There was that time by the river when I thought those big white birds were geese and Jake thought they were swans. Exactly. We're normal. I knew it.

We're nearing the Panther building now, and as we walk up the pale stone steps, each with a granite panther jumping across it, I start feeling a bit nervous. Paul will want a full report on how the meeting went with Glen Oil.

What shall I say?

Well, obviously I'll be completely frank and honest. Without actually telling him the truth—

'Hey, look.' Katie's voice interrupts me and I follow her gaze. Through the glass front of the building I can see a commotion in the foyer. This isn't normal. What's going on?

God, has there been a fire, or something?

As Katie and I push our way through the heavy revolving glass doors, we look at each other in bewilderment. The whole place is in turmoil. People are scurrying about, someone's polishing the brass banister, someone else is polishing the fake plants, and Cyril, the senior office manager, is shooing people into lifts.

'Could you please go to your offices! We don't want you hanging around the reception area. You should all be at your desks by now.' He sounds completely stressed out. 'There's nothing to see down here! Please go to your desks.'

'What's happening?' I say to Dave the security guard, who's lounging against the wall with a cup of tea as usual. He takes a sip, swills it around his mouth and gives us a grin.

'Edward Masen's visiting.

'What?' We both gawp at him.

'Today?'

'Are you serious?'

In the world of the Panther Corporation, this is like saying the Pope's visiting. Or Father Christmas. Edward Masen is the joint founder of the Panther Corporation. He invented Panther Cola. I know this because I've typed out blurbs about him approximately a million times. 'It was 1987 when young, dynamic business partners Edward Masen and Pete Laidler bought up the ailing Zoot soft-drinks company, repackaged Zootacola as Panther Cola, invented the slogan "Don't Pause", and thus made marketing history.'

No wonder Cyril's in a tizz.

'In about five minutes.' Dave consults his watch. 'Give or take.'

'But … but how come?' says Katie. 'I mean, just out of the blue like this.'

Dave's eyes twinkle. He's obviously been telling people the news all morning and is thoroughly enjoying himself.

'He wants to have a look round the UK operation, apparently.'

'I thought he wasn't active in the business any more,' says Jane from Accounts, who's come up behind us in her coat and is listening, agog. 'I thought ever since Pete Laidler died he was all grief-stricken and reclusive. On his ranch, or whatever it is.'

'That was three years ago,' points out Katie. 'Maybe he's feeling better.'

'Maybe he wants to sell us off, more like,' says Jane darkly.

'Why would he do that?'

'You never know.'

'My theory,' says Dave, and we all bend our heads to listen, 'is he wants to see if the plants are shiny enough.' He nods his head towards Cyril, and we all giggle.

'Be careful,' Cyril is snapping. 'Don't damage the stems.' He glances up. 'What are you all still doing there?'

'Just going!' says Katie, and we head towards the stairs, which I always use because it means I don't have to bother with the gym. Plus luckily Marketing is on the first floor. We've just reached the landing when Jane squeaks 'Look! Oh my God! It's him!'

A limousine has purred up the street and stopped right in front of the glass doors. What is it about some cars? They look so gleaming and burnished, as if they're made out of a completely different metal from normal cars.

As if by clockwork, the lift doors at the other end of the foyer open, and out strides Graham Hillingdon, the chief executive, plus the managing director and about six others, all looking immaculate in dark suits.

'That's enough!' Cyril is hissing at the poor cleaners in the foyer. 'Go! Leave it!'

The three of us stand, goggling like children, as the passenger door of the limousine opens. A moment later, out gets a man with blond hair in a navy blue overcoat. He's wearing dark glasses and is holding a very expensive-looking briefcase.

Wow. He looks like a million dollars.

Graham Hillingdon and the others are all outside by now, lined up on the steps. They shake his hand in turn, then usher him inside, where Cyril is waiting.

'Welcome to the Panther Corporation UK,' Cyril says fulsomely. 'I hope your journey was pleasant?'

'Not too bad, thanks,' says the man, in an American accent.

'As you can see, this is very much a normal working day …'

'Hey look,' murmurs Katie. 'Kenny's stuck outside the doors.'

Kenny Davey, one of the designers, is hovering uncertainly on the steps outside in his jeans and baseball boots, not knowing whether to come in or not. He puts a hand to the door, then retreats a little, then comes up to the door again and peers uncertainly inside.

'Come in, Kenny!' says Cyril, opening the door with a rather savage smile. 'One of our designers, Kenny Davey. You should have been here ten minutes ago, Kenny. Still, never mind!' He pushes a bewildered Kenny towards the lifts, then glances up and shoos us away in irritation.

'Come on,' says Katie, 'we'd better go.' And, trying not to giggle, the three of us hurry up the stairs. The atmosphere in the marketing department is a bit like my bedroom used to be before we had parties in the sixth form. People are brushing their hair, spraying perfume, shuffling papers around and gossiping excitedly. As I walk past the office of Neil Gregg, who is in charge of media strategy, I see him carefully lining up his Marketing Effectiveness awards on his desk, while Fiona his assistant is polishing the framed photographs of him shaking hands with famous people.

I'm just hanging up my coat on the rack when the head of our department, Paul, pulls me aside.

'What the fuck happened at Glen Oil? I had a very strange email from Doug Hamilton this morning. You poured a drink over him?'

I stare at him in shock. Doug Hamilton told Paul? But he promised he wouldn't!

'It wasn't like that,' I say quickly. 'I was just trying to demonstrate the many fine qualities of Panther Prime and I … I kind of spilled it.' Paul raises his eyebrows, not in a friendly way.

'All right. It was a lot to ask of you.'

'It wasn't,' I say quickly. 'I mean, it would have been fine, if … what I mean is, if you give me another chance, I'll do better. I promise.'

'We'll see.' He looks at his watch. 'You'd better get on. Your desk is a fucking mess.'

'OK. Um, what time will my appraisal be?'

'Bella, in case you hadn't heard, Edward Masen's visiting us today,' says Paul, in his most sarcastic voice. 'But of course, if you think your appraisal's more important than the guy who founded the company—'

'I didn't mean … I just …'

'Go and tidy your desk,' says Paul in a bored voice. 'And if you spill fucking Panther Prime over Masen, you're fired.'

As I scuttle to my desk, Cyril comes into the room, looking hassled.

'Attention!' he says, clapping his hands. 'Attention everyone! This is an informal visit, nothing more. Mr Masen will come in, perhaps talk to one or two of you, observe what you do. So I want you all just to act normally, but obviously, at your highest standards … What are these papers?' he suddenly snaps, looking at a neat pile of proofs in the corner next to Fergus Grady's desk.

'That's the … um … artwork for the new Panther Gum campaign,' says Fergus, who is very shy and creative. 'I haven't quite got room on my desk.'

'Well, they can't stay here!' Cyril picks them up and shoves them at him. 'Get rid of them. Now, if he asks any of you a question, just be pleasant and natural. When he arrives, I want you all at work. Just doing typical tasks which you would naturally be doing in the course of a normal day.' He looks around distractedly. 'Some of you could be on the phone, some could be typing at your computers … a couple of you could be creatively brainstorming … Remember, this department is the hub of the company. The Panther Corporation is renowned for its marketing brilliance!'

He stops and we all stare dumbly at him.

'Get on!' He claps his hands again. 'Don't just stand there. You!' He points to me. 'Come on. Move!'

Oh, God. My desk is completely covered with stuff. I open a drawer and sweep a whole load of papers inside, then in slight panic, begin to tidy the pens in my stationery pot. At the next desk, Artemis Harrison is redoing her lipstick.

'It'll be really inspirational to meet him,' she says, admiring herself in her hand mirror. 'You know, a lot of people think he single-handedly changed the face of marketing practice.' Her eyes fall on me. 'Is that a new top, Bella? Where's it from?'

'Er, French Connection,' I say after a pause.

'I was in French Connection at the weekend.' Her eyes are narrowing. 'I didn't see that design.'

'Well, they'd probably sold out.' I turn away and pretend to be reorganizing my top drawer.

'What do we call him?' Caroline is saying. 'Mr Masen or Edward?'

'Five minutes alone with him,' Nick, one of the marketing executives, is saying feverishly into his phone. 'That's all I need. Five minutes to pitch him the website idea. I mean, Jesus, if he went for it—'

God, the air of excitement is infectious. With a spurt of adrenalin, I find myself reaching for my comb and checking my lip-gloss. I mean, you never know. Maybe he'll somehow spot my potential. Maybe he'll pull me out of the crowd!

'OK, folks,' says Paul, striding into the department. 'He's on this floor. He's going into Admin first …'

'On with your everyday tasks!' exclaims Cyril. 'Now!'

Fuck. What's my everyday task?

I pick up my phone and press my voice-mail code. I can be listening to my messages.

I look around the department – and see that everyone else has done the same thing.

We can't all be on the phone. This is so stupid!

OK, I'll just switch on my computer and wait for it to warm up.

As I watch the screen changing colour, Artemis starts talking in a loud voice.

'I think the whole essence of the concept is vitality,' she says, her eye constantly flicking towards the door. 'D'you see what I mean?'

'Er, yes,' says Nick. 'I mean, in a modern marketing environment, I think we need to be looking at a … um … fusion of strategy and forward-thinking vision …'

God, my computer's slow today. Edward Masen will arrive and I'll still be staring at it like a moron.

I know what I'll do. I'll be the person getting a coffee. I mean, what could be more natural than that?

'I think I'll get a coffee,' I say self-consciously, and get up from my seat.

'Could you get me one?' says Artemis, looking up briefly. 'So anyway, on my MBA course …'

The coffee machine is near the entrance to the department, in its own little alcove. As I'm waiting for the noxious liquid to fill my cup, I glance up, and see Graham Hillingdon walking out of the admin department, followed by a couple of others. Shit! He's coming!

OK. Keep cool. Just wait for the second cup to fill, nice and natural …

And there he is! With his blond hair and his expensive-looking suit, and his dark glasses. But to my slight surprise, he steps back, out of the way.

In fact, no-one's even looking at him. Everyone's attention is focused on some other guy. A guy in jeans and a black turtleneck who's walking out now.

As I stare in fascination, he turns. And as I see his face I feel an almighty thud, as though a bowling ball's landed hard in my chest.

Oh my God.

It's him.

The same emerald eyes. The same lines etched around them. The stubble's gone, but it's definitely him.

It's the man from the plane.

What's he doing here?

And why is everyone's attention on him? He's speaking now, and they're lapping up every word he says.

He turns again, and I instinctively duck back out of sight, trying to keep calm. What's he doing here? He can't—

That can't be—

That can't possibly be—

With wobbly legs, I walk back to my desk, trying not to drop the coffee on the floor.

'Hey,' I say to Artemis, my voice pitched slightly too high. 'Erm … do you know what Edward Masen looks like?'

'No,' she says, and takes her coffee. 'Thanks.'

'Dark hair,' says someone.

'Dark?' I swallow. 'Not blond?'

'He's coming this way!' hisses someone. 'He's coming!'

With weak legs I sink into my chair and sip my coffee, not tasting it.

'… our head of marketing and promotion, Paul Fletcher,' I can hear Graham saying.

'Good to meet you, Paul,' comes the same dry, American voice.

It's him. It's definitely him.

OK, keep calm. Maybe he won't remember me. It was one short flight. He probably takes a lot of flights.

'Everyone.' Paul is leading him into the centre of the office. 'I'm delighted to introduce our founding father, the man who has influenced and inspired a generation of marketeers – Edward Masen!'

A round of applause breaks out, and Edward Masen shakes his head, smiling. 'Please,' he says. 'No fuss. Just do what you would normally do.'

He starts to walk around the office, pausing now and then to talk to people. Paul is leading the way, making all the introductions, and following them silently everywhere is the blond man.

'Here he comes!' Artemis hisses, and everyone at our end of the office stiffens.

My heart starts to thump, and I shrink into my chair, trying to hide behind my computer. Maybe he won't recognize me. Maybe he won't remember. Maybe he won't—

Fuck. He's looking at me. I see the flash of surprise in his eyes, and he raises his eyebrows.

He recognizes me.

Please don't come over, I silently pray. Please don't come over.

'And who's this?' he says to Paul.

'This is Isabella Swan, one of our junior marketing assistants.'

He's walking towards me. Artemis has stopped talking. Everyone's staring. I'm hot with embarrassment.

'Hello,' he says pleasantly.

'Hello,' I manage. 'Mr Masen.'

OK, so he recognizes me. But that doesn't necessarily mean he remembers anything I said. A few random comments thrown out by a person in the next-door seat. Who's going to remember that? Maybe he wasn't even listening.

'And what do you do?'

'I, um, assist the marketing department and I help with setting up promotional initiatives,' I mumble.

'Bella was in Glasgow only last week on business,' puts in Paul, giving me a completely phoney smile. 'We believe in giving our junior staff responsibility as early as possible.'

'Very wise,' says Edward Masen, nodding. His gaze runs over my desk and alights with sudden interest on my polystyrene cup. He looks up and meets my eye. 'How's the coffee?' he asks pleasantly. 'Tasty?'

Like a tape recording in my head, I suddenly hear my own stupid voice, prattling on.

_'The coffee at work is the most disgusting stuff you've ever drunk, absolute poison …'_

'It's great!' I say. 'Really … delicious!'

'I'm very glad to hear it.' There's a spark of amusement in his eyes, and I feel myself redden.

He remembers. Fuck. He remembers.

'And this is Artemis Harrison,' says Paul. 'One of our brightest young marketing executives.'

'Artemis,' says Edward Masen thoughtfully. He takes a few steps towards her work station. 'That's a nice big desk you've got there, Artemis.' He smiles at her. 'Is it new?'

_'… this new desk arrived the other day, and she just took it …'_

He remembers everything, doesn't he? Everything.

Oh God. What the fuck else did I say?

I'm sitting perfectly still, while Artemis makes some showy-off reply, with my pleasant, good-employee expression. But my mind is frantically spooling back, trying to remember, trying to piece together what I said. I mean, God, I told this man everything about myself. Everything. I told him what sort of knickers I wear, and what flavour ice-cream I like, and how I lost my virginity, and—

My blood runs cold.

I'm remembering something I should not have told him.

Something I should not have told anyone.

_'… I know I shouldn't have done it, but I so wanted to get the job …'_

I told him about faking the A grade on my CV.

Well, that's it. I'm dead.

He'll fire me. I'll get a record for being dishonest and no-one will ever employ me again, and I'll end up on a 'Britain's Worst Jobs' documentary, clearing up cow poo, saying brightly 'It's not too bad, really.'

OK. Don't panic. There must be something I can do. I'll apologize. Yes. I'll say it was an error of judgement which I now deeply regret, and I never meant to mislead the company, and—

No. I'll say, 'Actually, I did get an A grade, haha, silly me I forgot!' And then I'll forge a GCSE certificate with one of those calligraphy kits. I mean, he's American. He'll never know.

No. He's bound to find out. Oh God. Oh God.

OK, maybe I'm over-reacting here. Let's just get things in proportion. Edward Masen is a huge important guy. Look at him! He's got limos and flunkies, and a huge great company which makes millions every year. He doesn't care if one of his employees got a poxy A grade or not. I mean, honestly!

I laugh out loud in my nerves, and Artemis gives me an odd look.

'I'd just like to say that I'm very glad to meet you all,' says Edward Masen, looking around the silent office. 'And also introduce my assistant Sven Petersen.' He gestures to the guy with blond hair. 'I'll be staying here for a few days so I hope I'll get to know a few of you better. As you're aware, Pete Laidler, who founded the Panther Corporation with me, was British. For that reason, among many others, this country has always been immensely important to me.'

A sympathetic murmur goes around the office.

He lifts a hand, nods, and walks away, followed by Sven and all the executives. There's silence until he's gone, then an excited babble breaks out.

I feel my whole body sag in relief. Thank God. Thank God.

Honestly, I'm such a moron. Fancy thinking even for a moment that Edward Masen would remember what I said. Let alone care about it! Fancy thinking he would take time out of his busy, important schedule, for something as tiny and insignificant as whether I faked my CV or not! As I reach for my mouse and click on a new document, I'm actually smiling.

'Bella.' I look up to see Paul standing over my desk. 'Edward Masen would like to see you,' he says curtly.

'What?' My smile fades away. 'Me?'

'The meeting room in five minutes.'

'Did he say why?'

'No.'

Paul strides off, and I gaze unseeingly at my computer screen, feeling sick.

I was right first time.

I'm going to lose my job.

I'm going to lose my job because of one stupid comment on one stupid plane ride.

Why did I have to get upgraded? Why did I have to open my stupid mouth? I'm just a stupid, stupid blabbermouth.

'Why does Edward Masen want to see you?' says Artemis, sounding put out.

'I don't know,' I say.

'Is he seeing anyone else?'

'I don't know!' I say distractedly.

To stop her asking any more questions, I start typing drivel into my computer, my mind whirring round and round.

I can't lose this job. I can't ruin yet another career.

He can't fire me. He just can't. It's not fair. I didn't know who he was. I mean, obviously, if he'd told me he was my employer, I would never have mentioned my CV. Or … any of it.

And anyway, it's not as if I faked my degree, is it? It's not as if I've got a criminal record or something. I'm a good employee. I try really hard and I don't skive off that often, and I put in all that overtime with the sportswear promotion, and I organized the Christmas raffle …

I'm typing harder and harder, and my face is growing red with agitation.

'Bella.' Paul is looking meaningfully at his watch.

'Right.' I take a deep breath and stand up.

I'm not going to let him fire me. I'm just not going to let it happen.

I stride across the office and down the corridor to the meeting room, knock on the door and push it open.

Edward Masen is sitting on a chair at the conference table, scribbling something in a notebook. As I come in, he looks up, and the grave expression on his face makes my stomach turn over.

But I have to defend myself. I have to keep this job.

'Hi,' he says. 'Can you close the door?' He waits until I've done so, then looks up. 'Bella, we need to talk about something.'

'I'm aware that we do,' I say, trying to keep my voice steady. 'But I'd like to say my part first, if I may.'

For a moment Edward Masen looks taken aback – then he raises his eyebrows.

'Sure. Go ahead.'

I walk into the room, take a deep breath and look him straight in the eye.

'Mr Masen, I know what you want to see me about. I know it was wrong. It was an error of judgement which I deeply regret. I'm extremely sorry, and it will never happen again. But in my defence …' I can hear my voice rising in emotion. 'In my defence, I had no idea who you were on that plane ride. And I don't believe I should be penalized for what was an honest genuine mistake.'

There's a pause.

'You think I'm penalizing you?' says Edward Masen at last, with a frown.

How can he be so callous?

'Yes! You must realize I would never have mentioned my CV if I'd known who you were! It was like a … a honeytrap! You know, if this was a court the judge would throw it out. They wouldn't even let you—'

'Your CV?' Edward Masen's brow clears. 'Ah! The A grade on your résumé.' He gives me a penetrating look. 'The falsified A grade, I should say.'

Hearing it out loud like that silences me. I can feel my face growing hotter and hotter.

'You know, a lot of people would call that fraud,' says Edward Masen, leaning back in his chair.

'I know they would. I know it was wrong. I shouldn't have … But it doesn't affect the way I do my job. It doesn't mean anything.'

'You think?' He shakes his head thoughtfully. 'I don't know. Going from a C grade to an A grade …that's quite a jump. What if we need you to do some math?'

'I can do maths,' I say desperately. 'Ask me a maths question. Go on, ask me anything.'

'OK.' His mouth is twitching. 'Eight nines.'

I stare at him, my heart racing, my mind blank. Eight nines. I've got no idea. Fuck. OK, once nine is nine. Two nines are—

No. I've got it. Eight tens are 80. So eight nines must be—

'Seventy-two!' I cry, and flinch as he gives a tiny half-smile. 'It's seventy-two,' I add more calmly.

'Very good.' He gestures politely to a chair. 'Now. Have you finished what you wanted to say or is there more?'

I rub my face confusedly. 'You're … not going to fire me?'

'No,' says Edward Masen patiently. 'I'm not going to fire you. Now can we talk?'

As I sit down, a horrible suspicion starts growing in my mind.

'Was …' I clear my throat. 'Was my CV what you wanted to see me about?'

'No,' he says mildly. 'That wasn't what I wanted to see you about.'

I want to die.

I want to die right here, right now.

'Right.' I smooth back my hair, trying to compose myself; trying to look businesslike. 'Right. Well. So er, what did you … what …'

'I have a small favour to ask you.'

'Right!' I feel a thud of anticipation. 'Anything! I mean … what is it?'

'For various reasons,' says Edward Masen slowly, 'I would prefer it that nobody knows I was in Scotland last week.' He meets my eyes. 'So I would like it very much if we could keep our little meeting between ourselves.'

'Right!' I say after a pause. 'Of course! Absolutely. I can do that.'

'You haven't told anyone?'

No. No-one. Not even my … I mean, no-one. I haven't told anyone.'

'Good. Thank you very much, I appreciate it.' He smiles, and gets up from his chair. 'Nice to meet you again, Bella. I'm sure I'll see you again.'

'That's it?' I say, taken aback.

'That's it. Unless you had anything else you wanted to discuss.'

'No!' I get to my feet hurriedly, banging my ankle on the table leg.

I mean, what did I think? That he was going to ask me to head up his exciting new international project?

Edward Masen opens the door, and holds it politely for me. And I'm halfway out when I stop. 'Wait.'

'What is it?'

'What shall I say you wanted to talk to me about?' I say awkwardly. 'Everyone's going to ask me.'

'Why not say we were discussing logistics?' He raises his eyebrows and closes the door.

My face reddens as I remember telling him that I had no idea what 'logistics' means.


End file.
